


Coffee

by hakuzo_k



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Angst, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-23
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-10-30 00:56:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hakuzo_k/pseuds/hakuzo_k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whenever England reminisces about America, he drinks American coffee.</p><p>"Mechanically, a hand reaches into the farthest depths of the cabinet, feeling the textures of the plastic containers to determine the one he was to use on awakenings like these.</p><p>A masochist, just tearing the wound more."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. With Cream and Sugar

**Author's Note:**

> I've actually developed this prompt from about a year ago and have been tentatively working on it since. I really want to get this story out there so I thought if I publish it, it might motivate me to work on it more. Thank you for reading.

Another scare. Another memory. Another night awaking nearly four in the morning. Sometimes he would have bothersome dreams – suspenseful or sexual or casual or fun – but this time it's one of those dreams that feel so livid and still surreal, shaking and confusing his core and mind to open his eyes to reconnect with reality.

And reality it was. (No quaint, wood aroma and cotton sheet smell in the house; no green, green, lively leaves on trees outside his window; no small sunlight pouring into the bedroom from the New World; no bare feet patting down the hallway, its owner ready to wish a good morning and request breakfast–)

Heart caught in throat (quivering), pained breaths, clammy palms – England rests his head against his hands, feeling the disgusting, collected perspiration, but releases a heavy, loud, shaky breath (something to either make sure he was aware or to calm his nerves).

Ah, well, looks like he's up. Heavy eyes scan the bed sheets briefly (no sunlight warming them), refocusing the surroundings before placing hands to swipe across, hoping to recognize the texture (and he does). England slowly moves across the bed, still under the covers, and hovers his feet over the side, toes searching for house loafers and consequently slipping in them.

Mind about, (not focused, not wanting to recall and listen and view in detail his past musings and dreams), England makes his way monotonously to his kitchen downstairs. Frown still intact, he reaches to his wooden cabinet, opening its door to pull out a small coffee-maker (for when America visits, the stupid, blubbering idiot).

He places it on the counter, and freezes, frowns – eyebrows tightened, lips pulled into a tight, unbearable straight line, he bites at the near corner of his cheek. His heart is thudding hard in his chest by now, his palms sweaty, nearly slick and he wants to just sit, lie down, sleep, sleep, forget everything for just a moment, at least one moment–

But he wouldn't even let himself have the pleasure. As much as England wishes it to himself, he still won't let it happen. Stupid, stupid, he and everyone is stupid, especially–

Mechanically, a hand reaches into the farthest depths of the cabinet, feeling the textures of the plastic containers to determine the one he was to use on awakenings like these.

A masochist, just tearing the wound more.

A sharp pain suddenly passes through the nerves in his mouth – his teeth retract to rest (they've been holding down all this time).

The container is pulled out and placed on the counter next to the black appliance (he doesn't even want to glimpse at it, he knows for sure he'd just be pulled in by its familiar appearance, and he'd cry, cry because it reminded him and yet he does this purposely to his self). England plugs in the appliance, face stoic and bored-like to the ritual. He opens the red, plastic container, seeking the measuring spoon inside and measures the black grains to pour into the white filter of the machine. The pot is taken over to the sink faucet to dispel water into it, and again, England's biting the corner of his mouth, fighting back a warmth in his eyes.

"I don't fucking need this."

But he continues – the water is poured into the machine's water container, he shuts the lid, and starts it, the whirling and sputtering dark water causing him to quiver, anticipation and guilt and sadness overcoming again in his ritual.

England seats his self at the kitchen's table, a bit chill to the early morning, not at all satisfying a need for warmth. Good. He waits at the table, hands in his lap, looking about his kitchen in small stares, body sometimes shuddering at the choking noises that came from the coffee appliance. Then his eyes look downward, to the table, listening to the remaining liquid being spewed into the pot. His mouth tightens at the strong scent of black coffee. Familiar, familiar. He almost sings this to himself, but he lifts his self from the chair to approach the counter.

A mug, a cream jug, and sugar are pulled out. England licks his lips, not sure if his face has faltered yet, still playing his game even in this house and in comfort. He pours the coffee from the pot into the mug he has pulled out (with a graphic of "I heart DC" across it – a mindless present when America went through an airport gift shop before visiting him).

"'It's two cream and two sugar.'"

Reciting, England adds just that, and knows there's tears already at his eyes. He lifts the mug to his lips, breathing in, gently (and chokes on a sob), and takes a sip.

* * *

"Ah, hey England! I'm here!" shouts a voice from the front door, opened (slammed) to its hinges as another man walks through, tossing a backpack in to slide across the kitchen floor. The bag hits a chair leg to his amusement (something that England would often scold him for, being a ruffian and all). He snickers to his self, but a sudden scent catches his nose.

America frowns to his self, knowing the very familiar scent. He looks around the kitchen (to where it would be) with his ears open in case England would enter and catch him and consequently scold him at defiling his kitchen. There were times he dug through the cabinets, trying to find something edible for them to eat, and for whatever reason, England seemed to always have a red, angry, guarded face. Perhaps teasing his non-existent cooking skills got too far–

He opens the slide-out trash bin in the bottom cabinet, spotting some dark grains littering it. America's brows furrow, and he moves about the thrown out plastic bags and soaked newspaper to find a filter with coffee grains in it.

At this moment, he is utterly at a loss for words. There is no smile that usually adorns his face, but an uneasy, dead frown. He pulls away from the bin and shuts the slide-out non-too lightly. He briefly checks the room again – with no sign of the other man.

America moves to the upper cabinets, to where England keeps coffee when he visits. He pulls out a brand of English coffee, already opened he soon discovers. Alright. So what? So what if England is using coffee? And it doesn't mean it was him; he could have had a visitor. America looks over to where the bin would be. ...But not when it was just recently used. How strange is having coffee hours before dawn? He wasn't pulling all-nighters like he would; he'd probably just use caffeinated tea anyway. England really seems to hate the taste of coffee.

Well, he can ask when he sees him. The old man is probably asleep.

America reaches to push the English coffee back into the cabinet when something red catches his eye. Curious, he reaches farther into the shelving to grasp onto a red plastic container. Bringing it to light, he instantly denotes it as an American coffee product. His heart jumps in his throat – the damned familiarity of it and why, why would England have this and never serve it to him?

A hand pops open the black lid, breathing in the strong, bitter aroma. There was a measuring spoon inside, a few cups or more have already been used. From the amount America noticed in the trash, about one serving of coffee was made.

America reapplies the lid to the red container, stuffing it into the farthest end of the cabinet then the English coffee. The door is shut and America really doesn't want to continue his surprise visit anymore.

England has been drinking American coffee.


	2. A Stolen Lost Item

A white cotton collared shirt is lost, but he doesn't pay it any mind; America is packing his bag to return home from a meeting in London (and a failed surprise visit). England bids him a farewell, cold and harsh and "make sure you give me a call next time; you nearly gave me a heart-attack when you suddenly intruded into my house." The American laughs, retorts with a jab at England, and leaves (not bothering to ask England for a ride to the airport; he seems too irritated to even drive).

England frowns at the closed door, arms crossed, nose uplifted. He turns on heel, leaving the kitchen, jaw tight and aching from clenching. His fists remain clenched as he walks, destination upstairs, to his bedroom. He wants to say he has a headache now and all he needs is rest, but that's a pretty typical lie of his.

Stepping into the room, he kicks off his house slippers and lets his feet and toes sink into the malleable carpet (dark and old and an ugly blue). He takes in a large breath, holding it for a few seconds before releasing it; his heart heavy and beating and  _dull_. England approaches his bed, passing his hand over the neat comforter, absently feeling the texture but more so to touch and have something occupy his mind. With such a pathetic thought, brows descend and a mouth frowns.

England lifts his self onto the bed (ivory comforter still soft and plush) and rests on his side. Slipping a hand underneath a pillow, he retrieves a white collared shirt. Green eyes look at it, wanting to seem detached and ruminating. It's anything but. He stares at it for a good while, no thoughts, just looking, tracing the thin threads that make the fabric with his eyes, fondling the sleeve with his thumb and fingers. It's entrancing, some menial task that absorbs him.

The man lowers his eyes and brings the shirt close to him, snuggling it under his chin, against his bosom. He dares take a breath (full of cologne, sweat, wind and rain of London, perhaps even a café in which he grabbed a cup of coffee and a donut) and chokes. Something is caught in his throat - large, obstructing, apprehensive - and he realizes it's emotion, crawling it's way through him, but more specifically his throat to voice out sobs and cries.

But he doesn't permit it. His mind wails; it's chaos. And at some point, England is sure it escapes anyway.


	3. A dream a dream a dream

It isn’t a memory this time, of times past (the beautiful, dangerous, something that is long gone, unattainable) - a story, a horrific story that should have remained nonexistent. He’s an idiot, truly, even in his dreams. The dolt thinks it would be a good idea to parachute over the _bloody ocean_. Idiot, idiot. He jumps out of the plane, excited, adventurous, and the parachute opens after a certain time. But he’s an idiot. He’s over the ocean - dark, deep water - how is this safe? Intelligent? It is not. He notices this too late and he descends upon the cold saltwater. Once immersed, his parachute sinks into the water also, trying to tug him into the menacing depths. And it succeeds. He can’t unbuckle it in time, he is pulled under the surface, swallowing and breathing the water. England has to watch all this unfold. He is in the front row seat of this horror film. The man continues to struggle, flail, choke, until finally he is assumed dead.

It is hard to believe. Those who also witnessed the event are ushering to him that he is dead, that nothing can be done now. But they don’t understand. There is an engulfing turmoil within him, feeling that he is quite literally being strangled by a massive block of irrationality. England screams, _screams_ \- desperate and lost.

There are tears that accompany the raw screaming. It is unbelievable and it is not real. They insist he’s dead, gone. But he doesn’t want to hear this so he screams at them back. They’re lying, liars, he can’t be dead because he does not believe it.

This is not real.

He is alive.

America is alive.

And England jolts awake, eyes turned to the shadowed-white ceiling. He lies there, disabled, and focuses on his breathing, moving his eyes across the ceiling to try and instill that he is indeed awake, that it is all a lie, such a blasted lie and he is very much alive-

It is something he does not want to admit to his self. No. England blandly keeps his eyes on the gray ceiling and remains numb in the aftermath. He feels a frown embed itself into his face, sinking deeper, and the corner of his mouth twitches just slightly. He really doesn’t want to think right now, but after such an… episode, it is hard to avoid.

But when England takes a breath through his nose, he smells coffee.

 

 

He passes the guest room (closed door), peers at it, before his hand fumbles for the staircase railing. He nearly slips down all the steps in the dark - blurry eyes far from helpful. England wildly throws out his arms, finding a wall to grip on to to lead him to his destination. Toes dig into the rough carpet underneath. He pats the walls, now not caring if there is too much noise. Something - the remedy -something to distract from that horrifying dream. It was unlike any other - and nearly shook him into an uncontrollable eruption of displaced feelings.

England’s feet pad onto a cold surface. The dampness of his feet made it difficult to move, sticking to the floor. He flicks on the light, dismisses it - who cares about clean, warm feet - and dashes to the cupboard.

He is clumsy now, mad - violently ripping out various containers and packages to reach for the red-lidded canister in the back. His heart is pounding hard - like he hasn’t yet recovered from the dream (it’s still here, residing, deep). Sweat. Sweat envelops him. The canister thunks onto the counter stiffly, causing England to have a brief touch with the moment of this - whatever panic, menace, destruction that is clawing sharply and persistently at him. A touch to the red-lid, and he’s fallen victim again (but a cold, senseless one). He’s gripping (trying to) at the lid. Hands are sweaty - they slip. The lid is pulled off - the strong aroma wafts him - he breathes it in in one large gulp -

-before he feels his heart plunge and releasing a dry, windless choke.

Tears are now his eyes; he’s fumbling (trying trying) to place the lid back on - failing, succeeding. He throws it into the cupboard and leaves the wretched mess of other containers and items scattered across the counter.

His chest is empty - or heavy - something. He tries to swallow his tearful frowns and deep, dry sobs. The light is then off, he is finding his way back up the stairs ( _hollow hollow hollow_ ), feet clammy and sensitive to the carpeted stair-steps

It’s not before long that he somehow grovels up the staircase, some sort of poison weighing him down. His hand reaches for the closed door and turns the knob. No sense, just go. The man huffs, attempting to regain his pride and breath upon entering.

America doesn’t stir in the bed, finely fit in his unconscious. But again, there is no sense. England staggers across the room, briefly taking in that the other is resting on his side, and he wills himself not to think or feel but to hurry up damnit before you back out of here and may never get a chance at this intervention again- England roughly shoves at America’s curled up arm.

The younger shifts back and hardly opens his eyes once something slides upon the mattress next to him. He is alerted with a jumped heart, but quickly settles when noticing the familiar hair and physique of the “thing.”

Hands tug and fist into his sleeping garments, wringing the fabric tightly (England will pester him over the wrinkles). The body shifts closer, bumps into his, but it doesn’t freeze like it usually does nor does it recoil; the other body grabs and claws at America, to pull down, to smother, to mesh with.

Desperate. Clawing. Wetness. America tries his best to look upon England’s face. It’s wretched looking, wet, a bit flushed, eyes shut tightly, mouth trying to work but can’t, can’t. It opens and closes, gaping, searching for breath, obtains nothing and chokes, hiccups. A small wail (scream, almost).

America uses an arm to bring the other closer, shielding his face from view, for the wetness to dry upon his Superman t-shirt. You have awful taste, America imagines. The nails and clawing deepens and America winces, pressing England forcibly closer. He still chokes wetly and breathes hot and breathless against his chest. Hesitantly, America strokes the other’s back with a light touch. As assumed, England recoils, but seems to realize there is not much space between the body and the hand. He gives up, letting the warm hand slide down the nightshirt.

As America raises his hand to stroke back down for a second time, England interrupts.

“You died,” he chokes out in a whisper. “Stupid. You know you’re stupid.” Quaking, still not stable.

America stops the motion and bites down a bitter grin at the man’s usual insults. Breathing out a little, he places his hand on England’s back and strokes down again, in an attempt to coax more words out of this strange ordeal. “What else?” he asked in a low voice.

“Stupid. You drowned.” England breathes into America’s clothed chest for a few moments. “Thought it was bloody brilliant to parachute over the ocean. Watched the whole thing. Idiot.” He continues to breathe harshly into the shirt; the tears have side-tracked for the time being.

“Ah, okay, so it was a nightmare,” America acknowledges, petting the smaller man’s back.

England weakly nods, pauses, and decides to fully let his head rest against America. His eyes remain shut, wishing that he could believe in the lies that his mind supplies. (A dream within a dream, fake, unreal, dead, not him, impostor.) Though this America - who surely isn’t fake, dead, a dream - continues to cautiously stroke down his back, coaxing the stiffness, turmoil, panic.

Too close, too warm, too real.

In the morning, England makes sure to pull himself out of the guest bed and hide in his office until he’s sure that America has left. Keep to himself - silent, alone, ‘I’m fine.’

America tries to talk to him, but finds it useless (like times before when he would be in a similar strange mood). Maybe the visit was too sudden, uncalled for, stupid.

But he doesn’t leave quite yet - not without a note in the coffee canister.

England finds this upon the next episode. And there’s a breezy scent of cotton and the clean New World.

He makes a fresh pot of black coffee and chokes down

every

last

drop.


End file.
